


Floaters In My Eyes (or Five Times Sherlock Woke Up Alone And The One Time He Didn't)

by Cat1ing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Falling In Love, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, Overdose, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Slash to Slash, neuroatypical Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 06:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28346730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat1ing/pseuds/Cat1ing
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up, he's always alone.Until he isn't.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Floaters In My Eyes (or Five Times Sherlock Woke Up Alone And The One Time He Didn't)

**One: Age 9**

It wouldn’t have happened if not for the goshawk.

Accipiter gentilis. A juvenile, by its deep brown coloring. Female. Seventy - no, closer to seventy-five centimeters in wingspan.

_ Lovely.  _

There were rarer birds, of course - far greater conquests for a young ornithologist. But this was his first goshawk, and that made it special. 

And besides, this was the first truly  _ interesting  _ thing to happen all week. Up until this point, the week had been awful, dull,  _ terrible _ . Mummy had called it a holiday, but how could it be a holiday if he wasn’t allowed to do a single thing that interested him? Spending even one tedious afternoon trailing behind Mummy as she meandered through countless stores had been almost more than he could bear. 

He would have liked to accompany Father to his conference. That might have been interesting. But apparently nine year olds couldn’t be trusted to sit quietly during lectures on new methods of indirect volatilization. 

Clearly the deans who had made up  _ that  _ rule had never met a nine year old like Sherlock Holmes.

Yesterday, after slipping away from Mummy during her afternoon tea, he had tried to explore the Bodleian library, but the harridan from the front desk had stopped him. She had turned him around and marched him right back out the front doors. 

Awful woman. 

She had thin hair that was more grey than brown, tortoise-shell eyeglasses that made her eyes look too large for her head, and one adult son, the product of an ill-conceived affair with a traveling professor. She loved this son she hadn’t meant to have, this child who was not part of her carefully planned life. But she didn’t know  _ how  _ to love him. He was a product of illogical passion, when everything else in her life had been measured and weighed, pros and cons carefully listed and considered. What room did her impromptu son have in this ordered life? That’s why he had moved out as soon as he was sixteen, and that’s why she lived alone in her one room flat with her ginger cat - 

She hadn’t liked it very much when Sherlock informed her of this. 

No one liked it when he told them the truth.

He had thought she was going to slap him - it wouldn’t have been the first time a stranger did so - but then Mycroft was there, appearing as though summoned by a spell. Mycroft’s hand was warm on Sherlock’s shoulder, his voice holding just the right amount of unctuous flattery to soothe the irate woman. His older brother had then led him away. Sherlock had been expecting censure, but Mycroft had only raised one cynical eyebrow and murmured, “Really, Sherlock? Waxing poetic on her affair, were we?”

And then Mycroft had offered to take Sherlock birding the next day. Sherlock had been unable to keep a grin from stretching his lips wide, even though he knew the expression made him look barmy. For a few heartbeats, he remembered why he loved his brother so fiercely. He remembered that Mycroft was the only one who understood him, who truly  _ got  _ him. This was why it had felt like his own heart had been ripped in two when his older brother had left him for school. Mycroft had left him for debate club and fencing and philosophy and Latin and  _ other  _ people, boring people, classmates and teachers and strangers and people who weren’t Sherlock.

But Mycroft’s abandonment could be temporarily forgiven, Sherlock thought, as he peered at his goshawk.

Sherlock was a good ten feet off the ground, perched carefully between two sturdy branches of the oak tree. He carefully drew out his leather journal and then released the bindings that held the pages shut. He found a blank page without ever looking away from the raptor. In crisp and clean letters, he carefully noted the date and time, the weather conditions, and details he observed about the surrounding habitat.

“If you fall,” a droll voice from below intoned, “Mummy will be displeased with me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn’t deign to answer. Instead he wrote his estimation for the bird’s wingspan. 

Sherlock did not look down. In his mind’s eye, he saw his brother leaning against the base of the tree, looking for all the world like he was at a tasteful saloon rather than this park. Mycroft’s brown Oxfords were clean from mud and grass even though he had taken the same course as Sherlock to reach this copse of trees. Sherlock, for his part, had managed to get mud in his dark curls, and he knew that when she saw him tonight, Mummy would click her tongue and all but throw him into the bath. 

Mycroft would be spotless when they returned home - Sherlock just knew it. The annoying rotter was reading Cicero at this very moment. He had been flipping slowly through the pages of his book while Sherlock had climbed his tree. 

The goshawk, fifty feet away in her own tree, gave a little hop and moved up a branch. She was no longer in Sherlock’s direct line of sight. He made a face, tucked his book and pen away in his small knapsack, and made to move from his perch so that he could watch her just a bit longer.

The only warning was a sharp crack below his feet. And then he was in freefall, branches reaching out to slap his face, something heavy colliding with his hip and twisting his body, somersaulting him around like a shuttlecock. The ground flew up to meet his face and everything went away.

  
  


Waking up was a rambling project. He first became aware of a terrible pain in his left wrist, so fierce and sharp that he could not feel anything else for several long moments. Sherlock was still surrounded by blackness, and it took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that this was because his eyes were closed. 

Next Sherlock became aware of unremitting nausea, and his throat clicked three, four times before he was able to swallow against the deep need to vomit. Only then did he open his eyes.

He knew immediately that he could not have been unconscious for long - probably not more than a few minutes. The sun had not moved from its spot in the sky.

Sherlock blinked blearily at the sky. The sun’s light was piercing and sharp through the branches of the oak over his head, and his skull began to throb. He could hear the wind through the branches, warm and gentle, and the smell of grass permeated his nose.

It took him a few minutes to realize he was alone. 

Where was Mycroft?

Slowly, knowing that if he moved too quickly his head would throb off of his neck and roll away, never to be seen again, Sherlock looked towards his right and then his left. He had to close his eyes, for the sight of his wrist bent at such an unnatural angle was genuinely disturbing. Making sure to keep his face skyward, he opened his eyes again.

“Mycroft?” he asked, hating how small and scared his voice sounded.

The sun was still there, as was the warm summer breeze, and he thought probably the goshawk was still there as well. But otherwise he was alone. And no matter how much he liked to think himself beyond silly childhood trivialities - he couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried, and had he ever believed in Father Christmas, the great imposter? - he was caught in an intense wave of fear and cresting panic. He had fallen, he had been knocked unconscious, he had clearly hit his head, his wrist was broken,  _ and where was his brother? _

  
  


Of course, there was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Mycroft had watched his little brother fall with an overwhelming sense of helpless fury. He had dropped his book and taken a single step forward when he heard the crack of the branch. In the time it took him to perform these two actions, Sherlock had hit two other branches coming down, breaking his wrist so badly that surgical pins would be necessary to reset the bones, and then landed in a limp heap five feet from where his horrified older brother stood.

Although he was only sixteen, Mycroft already carried himself with such poise that strangers regularly mistook him for an adult. His aplomb had fled, however, as he touched his brother’s still face and assessed that Sherlock was, thankfully, still breathing, but also completely unconscious.

Worried about spinal cord injuries, and knowing that time was of the essence, Mycroft had considered his options. He could wait with his brother another moment or so and see if he awoke up. Or he could run - Oxford shoes be damned - as fast as his portly body would allow. Mycroft hated to run, hated the way it made his stomach sway and his cheeks turn bright pink. He knew the other boys at Eton whispered “piggy” behind his back when they saw him run. Those words hurt him deeply even if he never let anyone know.

But his little brother, the odd child who had managed to alienate family members and strangers (including unfortunate librarians) alike, was gravely injured. This was his fierce little brother who tried so hard to hide from Mycroft that he thought the sun rose and set from Mycroft’s own hands. And Mycroft was, no matter his carefully assembled presentation of gravitas, still little more than a boy himself. And he was scared.

So Mycroft made the decision to run for help. He arrived at a nearby road within minutes and was able to return to his brother’s side within the quarter hour, this time followed by a good Samaritan who had been out for a Saturday drive. 

By the time Mycroft returned, Sherlock was sitting up against the trunk of the tree. His face was pinched and white, and he was holding his wrist to his chest. But he was upright, looking around, and he was alive - whole and alive. Mycroft, had he possessed the ability, could have wept for joy.

Mycroft then carried his little brother back to the road, feeling as though he was carrying some rare and broken bird. Sherlock was small in his arms and trembling ever-so-slightly. The boy was quiet and spoke only when asked direct questions. He would remain quiet for the rest of the afternoon and during his night in the hospital. He’d still be quiet the following day as he was readied for surgery for his broken wrist. It had been a terrible fright, Mummy would say, and of course Sherlock, who was a sensitive boy, would be quiet and not himself.

But Mycroft would never forget the look in his brother’s eyes when he had returned. Mycroft’s own lips had stretched into a grateful smile to see the boy awake, but Sherlock’s face was so still that it could have been carved from marble. His eyes, grey and blue and green, were pinched in pain, and they had flickered with an emotion so deep that Mycroft had almost stumbled and fallen. This emotion would disappear just as quickly, and Mycroft never did identify it. 

  
  


And afterwards, after the headache and nausea of his concussion had gone away, and after his wrist had healed and the scars from the surgery had faded to thin white lines visible only if one knew exactly where to look, Sherlock would be able to admit that he knew why his brother did what he did. He knew Mycroft had left him to find help. He understood why Mycroft had made this decision, and he even understood, logically, that it was the right one. 

But he could not quite bring himself to forgive Mycroft for leaving him. Sherlock could never forget that when he woke up, in pain from a broken wrist and nasty concussion, he woke up alone.

  
  
  


**2: Age 17**

Sherlock knew that Victor liked him. He just didn’t know  _ why _ . 

At first, Sherlock assumed it was because he was so clever. He was by far the cleverest in their chemistry class, and certainly more clever than Victor. It wasn’t that Victor was a doldrum, of course, just that he wasn’t the type of clever that Sherlock was. 

During the first two weeks of the semester, others tried to talk to Sherlock. They cozied up to his lab bench with all sorts of ridiculous excuses to make conversation. Sherlock knew that his reputation preceded him in any room he entered; these leeches were hoping to use him for his brilliance so they could get better grades. Sherlock knew he was not the type of person to inspire friendship for friendship’s sake.

In response to his classmates’ insincerity, Sherlock used his caustic words and razor-sharp glare like a protective jacket. One by one, the hangers-on dropped away. By week three of the semester, he was finally left alone .. almost. One young man kept trying. 

Day after day, Victor spoke to Sherlock. Every day it was, “That problem set was difficult, huh, Holmes?” or “I’ll bet you’re ready for the next quiz on Monday?” And so forth and so on.

It was tiring.

But it was also a little intriguing. Why did he keep trying? What did he want?

And despite himself, Sherlock found himself responding. 

At first, Sherlock offered only monosyllabic utterances in acknowledgement that Victor was addressing him. But, then, after a week of this, he found himself correcting one of Victor’s formulas (“No, see, you’ve put the carbon in the wrong place.”) A week later, he allowed himself to answer a more personal question about how he’d be spending the weekend (“In the library. Studying. Obviously.”)

And then, without fully understanding how it came to pass, Sherlock found himself sharing a table at the library with Victor.

Sherlock was surprised to find that he didn’t hate Victor’s company. Victor wasn’t a complete bore, and his smile was easy, even if Sherlock rarely returned one of his own. And when Sherlock walked into the lab, or library, or coffee shop, Victor’s eyes would light up as if he was genuinely happy to see Sherlock.

Sherlock did not understand this.

After another month of interactions - a collaboration on a lab project here, three late night study dates there - Sherlock thought that he had stumbled his way into his very first friendship.

Only days later did Sherlock finally recognize the reason for Victor’s regard.

  
  


Sherlock knew he was beautiful. He had no interest in the plebian mating rituals of his classmates - not the public hand-holding in restaurants, nor the private fellatio in the dusky corners of the university. But objectively, he knew that others found him striking. He knew he turned the heads of men and women alike, and he knew that this was because of the graceful line of his neck, the set of his blue-green eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones.

It had not escaped Sherlock’s notice that Victor was lovely as well. Sherlock didn’t really  _ care  _ that Victor was handsome, but objectively he saw that Victor’s chin was strong, his lips were plush, and his auburn hair was full and wavy. Victor was as tall as Sherlock, but he weighed probably a stone more, and he carried his lean muscle with a grace that Sherlock, who remained coltish, had not yet mastered. 

After three months of experimental organic synthesis, but also three months of conversation, laughter, and gentle touches to the hand (always Victor reaching out to Sherlock), Sherlock found his walls crumbling brick by brick. Each morning, he woke up knowing that he was alive to see another day in which there was someone who was happy to see him. There was someone who wanted to talk to him and who didn’t seem to mind if his conversations tended to ramble into the esoteric. Maybe Victor found Sherlock a bit odd, but he also acted like Sherlock was interesting, worth listening to,  _ worthy _ ...

Sherlock was shocked when after a long day in the lab, Victor walked him back to his dormitory room, silently followed him inside, and then sealed the space between them with a kiss.

Sherlock froze. He had never been kissed before. He had never  _ wanted  _ to be kissed before, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to be kissed now. Kissing had always seemed like an unsanitary practice, highly illogical and therefore beneath his notice. But as Victor’s soft lips lingered on his own, warm and with just the right amount of give, Sherlock was surprised to find that the sensation was not unpleasant.

Victor began to run his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip, and after a few heartbeats, Sherlock tentatively opened his mouth as well. He had not yet closed his eyes, and so he was free to study Victor’s countenance up-close. Victor’s eyes were closed and his face was relaxed in a mask of bliss. Sherlock’s sharp gaze flitted about, categorizing the twitch of Victor’s right eyebrow, the flare of his nostrils, and the humid breath from Victor’s nose to his own cheek. 

And then Victor groaned, and his tongue slid into Sherlock’s mouth. The gentleness evaporated, and Sherlock’s hands, which had been hovering a scant distance from Victor’s shoulders, froze at the sudden invasion. Victor, not noticing his friend’s recalcitrance, began to move forward, forcing Sherlock to walk jerkily backwards. 

His bed was suddenly pressing against the back of his thighs, and Sherlock wondered if he was supposed to remain standing or if he should sit. Then Victor pushed him, and Sherlock found himself on his back, blinking up at Victor with wide eyes.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Victor told him before he surged forward, covering Sherlock’s body with his own.

Very soon, there was too much data for Sherlock to categorize.

Victor, who had always been so gentle with his touches, was suddenly everywhere, invading Sherlock’s space, his skin, his breath. Bare hands tickled Sherlock’s ribs, and a damp mouth was dragging across his neck. Victor was groaning and murmuring softly, and Sherlock could only hear a third of the things he said.

“You are so hot.”

“God. Has anyone touched you like this before?”   
  


“I want to taste every bit of you. What do you want? Tell me what you want.”

At first, it wasn’t bad, exactly. But it was so much, and how could Sherlock respond to the touch on his right cheek when Victor’s hand was then moving to his belt? How could he answer what he wanted when he wasn’t even sure what Victor was offering? It had been years since the last time too much sensory input overwhelmed Sherlock’s calm, but now there was too much to taste, smell, and feel. He was unable to deduce what Victor would do next, and he did not understand how his own body responded.

Victor did not seem to notice his friend’s growing panic. Before long, Sherlock blinked and realized that both he and Victor were naked. What had happened to their clothing? And then Victor’s hand was between his legs, reaching, stroking, and-

Sherlock’s brain flickered and went offline. 

Afterwards, Sherlock would only be able to remember bits and pieces. It was as though he was watching a degraded video: there were clear moments before the tape seized, and then the next scene was playing. Victor’s hand was stroking him, his tongue hot and heavy on Sherlock’s chest. His fingers were coated with something slimy and he was reaching behind Sherlock’s bollocks. 

There was an uncomfortable stretch. A burning. It didn’t hurt exactly.

It didn’t feel good either.

Sherlock knew his body was responding. This was a chemical reaction, he thought madly, neuroreceptors responding to external stimuli. 

And Sherlock had never said no to Victor.

But he hadn’t said yes either, and Victor - sweet, understanding Victor who didn’t seem to mind that Sherlock could not be bothered with small talk, who laughed at Sherlock’s rudeness and sometimes tugged a dark curl in response - continued to touch and lick and fuck. 

And then without any agreement between the two of them, Victor took Sherlock’s virginity.

At some point, the processor that was Sherlock’s brain simply could not keep up with the input. He didn’t think he passed out, but he knew he was not  _ there _ . His body was in his dormitory bed with Victor. His lips and tongue and cock were there, and they were moving and slipping and sucking. But Sherlock’s mind had simply slipped away.

  
  


The next morning, Sherlock woke suddenly, as he always did. One moment there was nothingness, and then he was staring at his ceiling, aware of a deep ache in his arse and the scratch of what he suspected was burn from stubble on his cheek.

There was something slimy between his thighs.

He was alone in the bed. Victor had left sometime in the night. Sherlock had not heard him leave. 

Something deep in Sherlock’s gut turned over and squeezed. He slowly curled into the fetal position, an animal protecting its soft underbelly.

He stayed in bed that entire day. 

He never did speak to Victor again.

  
  
  


**3: Age 25**

It was a brilliant night. 

Bradstreet was in over his head. Sherlock  _ knew  _ the DI was in over his head. Bradstreet felt differently, of course, and had forbidden Sherlock (or “the obnoxious prick,” as he preferred to call the young detective) from entering the crime scene. 

Even Constable Lestrade - dull, annoying, but not the worst of the lot - agreed. When Sherlock turned up at the murder scene anyway, Lestrade pulled him aside and kindly, but firmly, warned him off. 

“Look, mate, you can’t keep doing this. I don’t know how you find out about these cases, but it’s not your job, you see? Why don’t you let us handle this?”

Sherlock sneered and jerked his shoulder out from under the constable’s friendly hand. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed down the sidewalk, moving quickly away from the flashing police lights and yellow tape … and then cut into the small alley between the bodega and high-end hair salon. He climbed the chain-link fence on the other side, and then slithered up the gutter. It was not dignified, of course, but it worked.

The techs had removed the body, but the blood splatter expert had not yet entered the room, so Sherlock jimmied open the window and crawled inside to take a look around. He quickly came to his own conclusions about the sprays of blood, found the damage to the paint on the door frame, and determined that the brother-in-law was the guilty party. 

Then things got messy.

Bradstreet swept into the room and froze when he saw Sherlock. First there was shouting (“How the  _ fuck  _ did you get in here?!”), and Sherlock found himself being marched from the building in handcuffs so that Constable Lestrade could take him in for disturbing a crime scene, or some other rot like that.

It took Sherlock all of thirty seconds to pick the cuffs, and even less time for him to slip away into the confusion of the busy street. 

Two hours later, Sherlock had determined where the murderous brother-in-law was hiding. The man was holed up at one of his laundry businesses which was, ridiculously, the site of his money laundering operation. 

Didn’t criminals have any sense of originality, Sherlock wondered crossly, as he picked the lock of the back door. 

Unfortunately, the small-time money launderer also possessed a truly impressive (and sharp) machete. Then the police arrived (“Jesus  _ Christ _ , Holmes, what are you doing here?!”), and things again became messy. There was a delightful stand-off in which Sherlock got to be a hostage. He used this opportunity to explain the chain of events leading to the murder and how he had solved it before Bradstreet’s inept police force.

Sherlock enjoyed providing his monologue. 

The murderer didn’t have a chance to interrupt, which was for the best - Sherlock had a much better sense of storytelling anyway. The murderer _did_ , however, have a healthy sense of outrage, especially when Sherlock noted his impotence. The man charged Sherlock with his machete raised high, and it was only by employing a fancy bit of bartitsu that Sherlock was able to escape any serious harm. 

With the murderer half conscious and moaning on the ground, Sherlock grinned and congratulated himself on a job well done. Broadstreet’s face was practically purple in rage, and Constable Lestrade dragged Sherlock away from the scene by his ear.

That part was a little embarrassing, Sherlock admitted to himself, but he supposed Lestrade was allowed to be tetchy. After all, it was from the constable’s care that Sherlock had so easily escaped. In a gesture of great cordiality, Sherlock presented Lestrade with his own handcuffs and offered to return with him to the station for booking. As Sherlock had solved the case and wanted to continue working with the police, this seemed like the polite thing to do.

Lestrade had rubbed the area between his eyes for a good thirty seconds, grumbled under his breath, and then taken his handcuffs and muttered, “Go. Just … just go, Sherlock.”

It had been a brilliant night.

  
  


And now it was terrible. 

In the space of an hour, London had gone from a whirligig of light and color and charm to a complete and utter drag.

There was no more color.

There would never be color again.

The night was cigarette ashes in his mouth, and Sherlock’s clothing was sandpaper against his skin. On the floor of his grey apartment, Sherlock lay limply on his back. He lifted his head and let it drop. He barely felt the pain. Awful boredom had seeped into his bloodstream, and now it raced through his vena cava, to his right atrium, out the right ventricle and into his lungs. Now it was picked up again, pumping through the left heart to invade the rest of his tissues. Nothing would ever be interesting again.

Sherlock knew what he needed to do.

He rolled onto this stomach and crawled to the couch, the only piece of furniture in his studio flat. He shoved one corner of the couch aside so that he could reach the loose wood panel beneath. This revealed a dark cubby, and from here he pulled out his case. His fingers stroked the glossy cover, and he moved to sit cross-legged, letting the anticipation build. 

Everything was terrible, but this would give him a bubble of joy. The bubble would inevitably burst, but for a few hours, the color would be back. 

He shrugged off his suit coat - he really needed to get it cleaned, he thought idly - and undid his cuffs. Carefully he rolled up his left shirt sleeve. He knew he still had a few good veins in this arm.

The routine began. Each movement was precise. 

Tourniquet.

Alcohol swab - once, twice, three times around the future puncture site.

Syringe - draw up the solution. Check for air bubbles.

Bevel up. Insert. Draw back on the plunger and check for blood. Perfect - he was in the vein.

Remove tourniquet. 

Three deep breaths. 

Think about how  _ brilliant  _ the night was.

And  _ push _ .

  
  
  


When Sherlock woke the next morning, he found himself curled on his side. He had no memory of the moments after the injection. This was odd. Normally he’d feel sweaty and ready to scratch off his own skin the morning after using, but he’d also possess some lovely memories. He’d remember the moments after the injection when colors bled into his drab little flat. He’d remember the kaleidoscope of sound and smell and taste from London blooming through his brain. He would remember his genius, the moments of the case, and he’d laugh and laugh at his own cleverness.

This morning, he remembered nothing.

An acrid smell tickled his nose. Sherlock slowly sat up. He saw that at some point in the night, he had been incontinent of urine. Every single one of his muscles ached, even his eyelids. There was a sharp sting in his mouth, and as he moved his tongue, he became aware that he had bitten deep into this muscle. 

Sherlock blinked. Had he had a  _ seizure _ ?

His mind was sluggish as he considered the events of the previous night. He had taken his regular 7% solution - no more and no less - with careful preparation. And yet he had experienced a bit of an overdose. 

He had survived. He wasn’t sure how. He supposed he was glad he still lived. Sherlock didn’t want to die. Not exactly. It wasn’t quite that he wanted to be alive either, but he was fairly certain he didn’t want to die.

Blinking against a sudden burning in his eyes, Sherlock took a deep breath in. 

He let it out. 

He had made it through the night. 

He had woken up. 

He was alone. But that was the way of things, wasn’t it?

  
  


**4: Age 30**

“I don’t  _ do  _ paperwork.”

“Too bad, mate.” Lestrade’s smile was friendly enough, but Sherlock didn’t trust the glint in the other man’s eyes. “Consulting detectives do paperwork.”

Tapping his long fingers on Lestrade’s desk, Sherlock felt his lips twist. He looked away.

There came a heavy sign from Lestrade. “This was part of the deal, Sherlock.” He held up three fingers. “Three conditions,” Lestrade continued, lowering the fingers one at a time. “One, you stay clean. Two, you involve me and don’t run off on your own. Three, paperwork gets done.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “This is intolerable.”

“And yet it’s happening,” Lestrade responded cheerfully, pushing the file across his desk so that it rested in front of Sherlock’s right elbow.

Sighing the sigh of the truly betrayed, Sherlock made to stand, turning as he did to look for an empty desk to use. Before he could locate the desk, however, a familiar coldness began in his fingertips. 

Oh no. Not here. Not now.

Sherlock felt his lips begin to tingle, and his peripheral vision turned to grey. His mind whirled , trying to remember when he had last eaten. When had the case started? Three - no, it was four days ago now. The call from Lestrade had come in the morning, so it was closer to five days. Yes, Lestrade had shoved some tea into his hands yesterday, but the two teaspoons of sugar could barely count for more than 30 calories ….

“Sherlock? Mate? You alright?”

Sherlock blinked, and his eyes sluggishly focused on Lestrade’s face. The other man wasn’t worried, at least not yet, but his brows were drawn tight and the lines around his eyes were more pronounced than usual. 

Nausea began to build. It was the next step of vasovagal syncope, Sherlock knew, precipitated by hypoglycemia, lack of sleep, and probably a touch of dehydration as well.

_ He could not faint at Scotland Yard. _

“I … will return momentarily.” Sherlock pushed away from the DI’s desk. The grey continued to permeate his vision, invading from the periphery. 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice sounded like it was moving through a wall of water.

Sherlock rushed into the hallway. He almost drifted into a wall, but he managed to keep his feet under him. The toilets were only five meters away - he could make it. Keeping one trembling hand on the wall, his legs moved seemingly on their own and without any direction from his brain. He just needed to stay vertical long enough to reach his goal.

Three more meters. 

His heart had started to pound, and he could feel sweat soaking the back of his silk shirt, making it stick uncomfortably to his spine. 

The doorknob to the toilets was cold beneath his hand, and he all but fell against the door as it swung open. His eyes swung right - stalls were empty, good - and then left - drat, that idiot MacKinnon was washing his hands at the sink.

“ _ Get out _ .” Sherlock tried to infuse his voice with steel. For once he was glad of MacKinnon’s unobservant nature - the other man did not notice Sherlock’s precarious state. He startled, realized who was threatening him, and fled the toilets.

The moment MacKinnon was gone, Sherlock pawed the lock on the outer door. He missed it the first time, and his vision was almost completely grey by the time he heard the sharp  _ snit  _ of the lock engaging.

He felt his knees hit the lino. 

He didn’t feel his right hip or head hit the ground. 

  
  


In Sherlock’s experience, these syncopal episodes were self-limiting, lasting only a handful of seconds. Although he couldn’t be certain, when he opened his eyes to peer at the ceiling, he was fairly sure he had lost only seconds.

His right occiput ached, and he suspected that if he reached beneath his dark curls, he’d feel a sizable goose egg from the fall. His right hip also throbbed, dull but persistent. Good. His transport had hit the ground first, and then his skull - the brain in its boney cavern would be safe. It was unlikely he had done this precious cargo any damage.

Groaning, Sherlock shuffled upwards slowly, noticing that the white of his fingertips almost matched the floor below in color. 

In a few moments, he would need to stand. The vending machine was not far, and there he could purchase a chocolate bar. This would have to keep him until he was able to reach his dingy apartment on Montague Street. Surely there was something edible in the fridge, and not just the tonsils he had brought home last week. 

Lestrade would not be suspicious yet. Just to be safe, Sherlock thought, he’d say something cutting and personal to keep the DI from thinking too hard as to why he had all but fled the man’s office. 

He’d bring up Lestrade’s failing marriage. Yes. That always worked to sidetrack the man. He’d be cross, but not worried, and not so annoyed that he’d stop tolerating Sherlock’s presence at crime scenes. 

Sherlock let the back of his head drop against the door, grimacing when this aggravated the bump on the back of his head. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his long arms around them. 

He’d get up in thirty seconds. He just needed a few more moments alone, reminding himself that no one cared. They tolerated him, and this was enough. Alone protected him.

  
  


**5: Age 33**

Sherlock woke up sluggishly with an awful taste in his mouth. With every breath, it felt like his lungs were on fire. The worst part was that his brain wasn’t operating as it should - it was like thinking through molasses. 

He was dimly aware that he was alone, even though he was in the dark, and he couldn’t determine the time of day or how long he had been unconscious. His hands were bound in front of him, the rope painfully tight. He suspected he could break free of the binding when his brain started to work again, but right now he couldn’t even process what material restrained his wrists. He could only appreciate that the soft skin of his wrists was aching and raw, and he was completely alone and without data. 

Panic began to seep into his veins, but before it got too bad, his stomach rioted and he coughed up a mouthful of vomitus.

Ah. Yes. Chloroform.

What type of criminal still used chloroform, he thought peevishly. Didn’t they know it wasn’t like in the movies? If weilded by a stupid foe - and really, weren’t most of them stupid? - chloroform could do real damage to its victim. The attacked party could suffer permanent damage and perhaps not even wake up.

Sherlock supposed he was lucky to be waking up, albeit in the dark and alone…

Alone.

_ John! _

Sherlock threw himself into a seated position and immediately regretted it. His equilibrium remained impaired, and so he was able to appreciate the unique experience of feeling like the room - the dark room that he couldn’t see - was spinning around him. He vomited again, barely missing his pants.

Panting, Sherlock pushed the nausea and discomfort to the back of his mind and made himself sit up more fully. He had to think.

He was alone now. He had not been alone when the chloroform was introduced, he was sure of it. He brain whirled as he tried to remember. He and John had been at the docks, yes that was it. They were following Sherlock’s lead while they investigated the counterfeiting ring. Sherlock had not yet updated Lestrade - it wasn’t as though he actually cared about Lestrade’s stupid conditions. They had been on their own, and they were about to enter the warehouse. There had been a subtle movement in the shadows beyond John, and Sherlock remembered turning. There had been a rag with a foul smell… 

And then he was here. He was alone.

Where was John?

God, those stupid, truly  _ stupid  _ criminals. They had used chloroform and they clearly didn’t know how dangerous it was. Why was he alone and where was John? What if they had miscalculated? What if they had overdosed John? What if they had … they had  _ hurt  _ him,  _ damaged  _ him,  _ killed _ -

The thought was intolerable.

Roaring, Sherlock kicked his legs out and was satisfied when his feet hit metal, creating an echoing din. The room was smaller than he had thought, and it wasn’t a wall across from him. It was a door.

“John!” Sherlock’s throat burned from vomiting, and this distorted his voice, but it only served to accent the rage in his tone.

He kicked more forcefully against the door.

“John!”

THUMP. THUMP. His feet slammed against the metal.

“JOHN!”

  
  
  


His internal clock was broken. 

He didn’t know how long he had screamed and raged in the darkness, but his burning throat was agony, raw and dripping with fire. His ankles ached from kicking, but he kept at it. The force was weaker and the sound no longer booming. 

It hurt to use his voice. But he continued to call out. 

“John.”

No one was answering. He heard nothing save for the noise of his own creation.

“John,” he muttered. His throat was killing him. He kicked again at the door, his heels barely scraping against the metal.

Sherlock’s chin hit his sternum as he swallowed with great difficulty. He closed his eyes against the stabbing pain and felt a burning behind his eyelids. He wanted to attribute this to the chloroform, but he knew it came from a different source.

“John.” The words were a susurrus in the darkness of his room.

Sherlock took a heavy breath in and out.

And then he heard a sound. It was soft at first, barely a scratch and almost impossible to hear over the pounding of his heart. It came again, and he recognized it for what it was - someone was slowly, painfully slowly, unlocking the door. 

Sherlock slowly pulled his knees to his chest, coiling his muscles and preparing to strike out. But even though he was listening with all of his concentration, when the door actually swung open, the light from the hallway blinded him. He closed his eyes tightly and turned his head away, hissing in discomfort.

“Sherlock. Oh, thank god.”

Kind hands, familiar hands, were on his face, flying across his cheeks, checking the bones of his skull, and then checking cervical vertebrae, clavicles, and resting on his upper arms.

Sherlock opened one eye, narrowed tightly against the light. An ache began to form in the V between his eyebrows. “John?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.

John’s face was in shadows, the light behind him bright and glaring. But soon Sherlock could make out the worried lines of his forehead, the pinched quality of his lips, and the concern in his eyes, so full of emotion that Sherlock felt a knocking in his chest. 

John was here. He was alive. He didn’t even seem harmed.

John’s eyes flickered to the puddle of sick beside Sherlock. “Oh, Sherlock,” he said, his voice infinitely sad. “You were sick. The chloroform.”

The detective frowned. “It hurts my lungs,” he said, “and it made me dizzy. I woke up alone, and I was sick.”

John’s face crumpled and Sherlock wished he knew what the expression meant. Sometimes John’s face did this when Sherlock had said something that made him sad for other people, but sometimes it meant he was sad for Sherlock. This face could make its appearance before fierce anger or before long silences in which Sherlock would rather John yelled. At least when John yelled, he told Sherlock how he felt and Sherlock didn’t have to try to figure it out from his expression.

“I’m so sorry,” John said. “I wish I had been here when you woke up. You shouldn’t have had to wake up alone and in the dark.”

Sherlock blinked. Why was John worried about that? “It’s fine,” he said, starting to shake his head and then thinking better of it when the ache between his eyes started to become a throbbing ice pick. “I simply meant that the effects of the chloroform were unpleasant, but entirely expected.” He peered more carefully at John. “You appear no worse for the wear.”

John’s gaze dropped to the ground, and his lips twitched as though he was trying to hide a smile. “Yeah, well, next time criminals hold a wet rag to your nose and mouth, you should try holding your breath. They thought I had passed out like you, and after they left me alone in my cell, I got out of my ropes, waited for someone to open the door to check on me, and took him down.”

“You held your breath?” Sherlock hated repetition but this seemed worth verifying.

John shrugged, and he was grinning outright now. “Yeah, I mean, I’m not a genius or anything, but it seemed like a good idea. I’m surprised you went with the other route.”

Sherlock stared. He had been sure John was injured, possible irrevocably, and the man had simply  _ held his breath?! _

“What about the other forgers?” Sherlock asked, suddenly aware of how complete John’s attention was. John didn’t seem to be worried that his back was to the hallway. It was unusual for the ex-soldier to let his guard down as he was right now.

“Oh, I took care of them,” John said. “After I knocked out the fella who came for me, I went after the rest of them. They’re immobilized - not dead, mind you, but they’ll stay down.”

Sherlock found he had no words in response to this.

The doctor’s face became more gentle. “Here, let me get you out of those ropes.” He reached for Sherlock’s wrists, frowning when he saw the injury to Sherlock’s wrists. “Bastards,” he muttered under his breath, and he produced a knife from the pocket of his jeans. He began to saw at the Nylon.

“They didn’t check your pockets?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

Shrugging, John freed Sherlock’s hands, tossing the rope aside with a final angry look. “Nah. Didn’t get my mobile either.” He stood and held out a hand to Sherlock. “Come on. I already called Lestrade. He and his lot should be here soon.”

This was simply too much. Sherlock remained seated, staring up at John with what he suspected was a silly face of disbelief. 

“So when Lestrade inevitably asks us to complete his ridiculous paperwork,” Sherlock said, “and we summarize the events of this regrettable evening, our respective roles can be noted as such: I was able to deduce the hideout of these ridiculous marauders, but I was taken down by a trope worthy of the most mind-numbing Hollywood motion picture. You, on the other hand,  _ held your breath _ , maintained both your weapon and your mobile phone, single-handedly immobilized our imprisoners, called Lestrade for back up, and now you’ve come to …  _ rescue  _ me?” If his voice hit a particularly high (and painful) note at the end, Sherlock would not admit that in the future.

John, for his part, winced and scratched the back of his neck with one hand. “I mean, there’s a reason we have this, uh, thing. This partnership. You’re the brains, and I’m pretty good with my fists.”

Sherlock continued to stare.

“And if it makes you feel any better, Sherlock,” John went on, his voice now taking a conciliatory tone. “They weren’t very competent criminals.” His smile was crooked and he seemed almost embarrassed for the counterfeiters’ failures..

Sherlock could still not think of a response to this. 

John reached down, gentle of the marred skin on Sherlock’s wrists, and pulled the taller man to his feet. His hands came up as though to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders, but then he seemed to change his mind, and instead he gently patted the Belstaff, wiping off dirt and grime collected during the night’s misadventures.

“There you go,” John said softly. “I’m sorry you woke up alone. I should have been here.” He signed heavily. “It’s okay. I found you.”

Sherlock still didn’t know what to say. It was rare for him to be struck dumb, but Sherlock had begun to suspect that he could not always trust his mind and body when he was in the presence of John Watson. 

Here the doctor stood, and Sherlock could not help but again reflect on how small and ordinary his friend looked. John had put on a cardigan for their stake-out. It was a black one at least, but still -  _ a cardigan _ . This man, this ridiculous walking contraindication, had again shocked Sherlock. The detective thought he had seen all there was to see of the human race, both cruel and ordinary. And now, again, one man stood before Sherlock with bloody knuckles and a gentle face and eyes so filled with …

Wait.

What was that in John’s eyes?

John had seemed about to turn and lead Sherlock away from the dark little room in which he had kicked and screamed his rage and, yes, he could admit it, his fear. But now the shorter man paused. He looked up into Sherlock’s face..

Sherlock discovered his voice: “You found me.” It was a statement of complete fact - there could be no debate. Sherlock and John would tempt death and danger, that was a given, and just as sure as that fact was the one that John would find him.

How extraordinary.

Wearing a soft smile that touched his eyes more than his mouth, the doctor stepped forward and oh-so-slowly - as one would approach a wild animal - raised his left hand. Just before he touched Sherlock’s cheek he paused, giving the other man a chance to move away or give some other sign that this was not wanted.

Sherlock remained still.

And then John’s hand moved the final few centimeters, at first just resting against Sherlock’s evening stubble, but then turning into something that was clearly a caress. 

Oh.

_ Oh _ . 

And even though his lungs still ached and his mouth tasted of bile, although the ice pick headache was picking up force and severity, even though his voice would stay ruined for the next four days … Sherlock felt no pain. All he could feel was the warmth of John’s palm against his cheek, and he leaned into it, like a flower leaning into the sun.

  
  
  


**And +1: Age 34**

It went without saying that Sherlock Holmes was a frequent visitor to the hospitals of London. Before John, if a wound could not be addressed with steri-strips, he would make the trip for sutures. After John had joined him as a colleague, the trips had lessened - simple injuries could now be addressed at home when one lived with a doctor.

After John had joined him as a lover, there had been even fewer trips to the A&E. Sherlock still frequently found himself in over his head while on the job - having acquired a boyfriend could not change who he inherently was. But with the knowledge that a night spent chasing murderers and thieves would end in a warm bed and John’s arms, well … throwing his life around in such a cavalier manner just didn’t seem worth it anymore.

Still accidents happened. Sherlock himself may have matured, but the criminal classes were still the criminal classes. Chasing ne'er-do-wells would always lead to lacerations, broken ribs, and contusions that required further imaging.

Appendicitis, however, felt like a waste of an ambulance trip.

John seemed to blame him for some reason. “You should have told me hours ago you weren’t feeling well, Sherlock!” he had argued. “What if it had perforated? You could have been septic!”. But John was wearing the expression that meant he was mad at the harm that could have come to Sherlock, not Sherlock himself. Sherlock was equally pleased that he was able to recognize this expression  _ and  _ that his lover was only worried, not truly furious.

The pleased feeling evaporated quickly once they reached the actual hospital. No matter how often Sherlock found himself in need of medical services, he could never fully desensitize himself to the overwhelming sights, sounds, and smells of the A&E. 

The fluorescent lights made his skin itch, and the overabundance of sensory input - the murmuring of the nurses, the beeping of the telemetry monitors, the smell of alcohol and antiseptic - was just  _ too much _ . Too many hands touched him. These hands checked his temperature, palpated his abdomen, and administered IV antibiotics. By the time Sherlock was prepped for his emergency laparoscopic surgery, he was ready to tear his hair out and curl into a tight ball with his hands over his ears.

It was terrible.

It was intolerable.

And Sherlock truly believed he might have wrenched his skin from his body, torn it off like macabre wrapping paper, if it weren’t for John.

It was John who turned off the overhead lights of Sherlock’s room in the A&E. It was John who answered the questions of the nurses when Sherlock could do little else but snarl and curl around his aching belly. It was John who explained the mechanism of action of his antiemetic to Sherlock, taking his mind off thoughts of the imminent surgery and into the more comfortable realm of chemistry.

And it was John’s face, hovering a few inches above his own, asking for just one minute more before the nurse wheeled Sherlock’s bed to the operating theater. “I’ll be there when you wake up, love,” he promised. “Okay? You won’t wake up alone.” 

Clutching John’s hand, sweating with pain and nausea, and feeling like his skin was on fire because it was all too much, Sherlock could do nothing more than close his eyes tightly and nod. 

John’s hand slipped from his, and the nurse took him away.

  
  


Waking up after professionally administered anesthesia was certainly an improvement to waking after the ameatur administration of cocaine or chloroform, Sherlock thought. His thoughts were slow and fuzzy, but the blankets around him were warm. The pain in his abdomen was gone. He felt bloated, like he had eaten too much day-old Chinese food, but it was a tolerable discomfort. 

Sherlock blinked blearily, noticing first that he was in a quiet room, no longer the noisy A&E bay. The sounds of the hospital were muffled - a private room then, with the door closed. The overhead light was dimmed.

There was a rustling to his left, and Sherlock turned his head, slowly in case of nausea. Thankfully, his stomach remained settled.

“Hey,” John said, smiling as Sherlock met his gaze. “There you are.” Now that Sherlock was no longer in such intense pain, and the frenzy of the hospital had faded, he could see that John was tired. The lines on John’s face were more pronounced and the skin under his eyes was purplish with fatigue.

But John’s blue eyes were clear and warm, and they met Sherlock’s own with such clear love that Sherlock’s breath was taken away.

It was then that Sherlock realized both of John’s smaller surgeon’s hands were holding his own larger left hand, cradling it like something to be cherished.

Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, Sherlock managed to croak out: “You’re here.”

John’s hands squeezed his own and his face became impossibly more loving. “Yeah,” he said, stroking the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner wrist with one thumb. “I’ll always be here when you wake up.”

And Sherlock smiled.

  
  


_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note - consent should always be enthusiastic. I wrote teenager Sherlock as feeling conflicted, but I want to stress that Victor is very much in the wrong here. There's no such thing as assumed consent, and only an enthusiastic yes means yes.


End file.
